Cut to the Bone

Hard-charging Naperville Police officer barely escaped with her life in Blown Away. Now she’s a detective, and she’s in love with Martin Benedetti, the county sheriff’s homicide commander. They’re building their dream house in the Chicago suburb of Naperville, where she lives and works. Life is good as she slowly recovers from her jagged wounds, both physical and emotional . . .

Until another serial killer decides it would be fun to crash the party and match wits with a cop he believes should have died in the noose of the first killer’s “Hangman” game. In Cut to the Bone, a stone-cold multiple murderer is scheduled to die in the state electric chair in Naperville. He’d kidnapped an expectant mother, cut the baby out her womb, and gave it to his girlfriend, who’d wanted kids but didn’t want to ruin her figure giving birth. The screams of the dying mother alerted nearby police officers, who gave chase. The killer smashed the infant against a tree trying to escape. The cops caught him anyway. He was tried, and now he’ll fry. But Emily Thompson’s newest foe, who calls himself The Executioner, decides that he, not the cops, jury, state, governor, or any mere detective, is this man’s god of life and death. So he attacks Emily to get inside the death house and free the baby- and mom-killer, even as the electrical generator winds up to deliver its killer punch.

(This fictional crime was inspired by a ghastly real-life crime in the Chicago suburb of Addison. According to murderpedia.com and my own research, Fedell Caffey and girlfriend Jacqueline Williams decided they wanted a baby. But Williams didn’t want to ruin her figure by giving birth. So in November 1995, they stabbed to death a pregnant woman, Debra Evans, and cut her nearly full-term fetus from her body. To eliminate witnesses, they also murdered Evans’ 10-year-old daughter, Samantha, and 8-year-old son, Joshua. Another child, Jordan, was spared because, they thought, children under the age of 2 couldn’t be reliable witnesses. The cut-out boy, named Eli, also survived. Jordan and Eli are being raised by Evans’s grandfather. Caffey and Williams were sentenced to death. That was commuted to life in prison when then-Governor George Ryan emptied Death Row and banned capital punishment in Illinois.)

Book Excerpt

Prologue

Naperville, Illinois11:58 a.m.

The blue velvet curtains drew back like it was movie night, allowing Johnny Sanders to stare through the bulletproof window.

Twelve sets of eyes stared back.

The eyes of the people who’d come to watch him die.

Sanders half-smiled in acknowledgement. Some returned it. Others looked away. One skinny guy flinched, like Sanders had snaked through the glass and tickled him. Sanders thought that hilarious. He was strapped to a quarter-ton chair, which was bolted to the floor, which was anchored to reinforced concrete. He wasn’t tickling anyone. He was waiting. For the end.

Which would come in, oh, a minute and a half.

He tried to relax by taking deep breaths. He coughed—the air stank of quicklime and paste wax. The former from the fresh-cured concrete that formed the execution center’s floors, ceilings, walls, and corridors. The latter from the chair itself.

More

He traced his fingers along its wide oak arms.

Slippery as drool.

The paste wax, he figured. Humidity. Or the restless fingers of the condemned, rubbing the wood like a rosary . . .

Sanders shivered, suddenly chilled. He wondered why. The execution center’s furnace was pumping heat like the devil opened a hole in the earth.

Maybe I’m getting sick, he thought. Hope I don’t catch my death of a cold.

The little joke made him smile.

He glanced at the official clock over the curtains.

The smile faded.

He wasn’t sick, he knew. He was scared. He shouldn’t be. But he was.

Go figure.

“Think it’ll work this time?” the state executioner asked the electrician.

“Damn well better,” the electrician said.

“I hear ya. Did you replace the power cable?”

The electrician slapped the control panel. “New, just like this. I triple-checked every connection. Polished the electrodes. Replaced the switches. Rebuilt the buzzer box.” He shook his head. “This time she’ll sing like the fat lady.”

“She doesn’t,” the executioner warned, “Covington sticks us both in the thing.”

Sanders worked his teeth into the heavy mouth guard. Like the doctor said, it’d be stupid to crack his molars if clemency came through during the burn.

He chomped till rubber suckled his gums, praying the phone would ring.

“Fifteen seconds,” the executioner said. “Fingers up.”

The assistant executioners nodded, and black silk touched red push-buttons. It was part of the dress code, the silk. Like the rest of the staff, the executioner and his two assistants dressed business casual—tan Dockers and navy sport coats. But in addition they wore black silk hoods and gloves, to shield their identities from the condemned.

A couple months ago, he’d asked a California counterpart why that mattered. “Dead men tell no tales,” he’d quipped over single-malts at a corrections conference. He received only a shrug and a muttered, “Who the hell knows why we do anything?”

When the red hand joined the blacks at twelve, the executioners would take a deep breath and push. One of the buttons—and only one, so each could secretly believe he wasn’t the real executioner—would send several thousand volts of Illinois electricity into the condemned prisoner. Killing him.

Or so everyone hoped.

Last time, the multimillion-dollar death system didn’t kill anything but the lights. Prompting an apoplectic Illinois Governor Wayne Covington to boot the Justice Center’s director. If it didn’t work exactly as promised from here on, the governor warned, “I’ll fire every single damn last one of you.”

Nobody wanted that.

“Two. One. Now,” the executioner said, breathing fast and shallow as the second hand completed its march to the sea.

Their thumbs kicked so symmetrically they could have been Rockettes.

Sanders cringed at a warmth he hadn’t felt since third grade. “Oh, man,” he whispered, flushing with shame.

The Justice Center director swaggered in, grinning so hard his eyes vanished. “You’re one hell of an actor, Johnny!” he boomed. “You looked so scared when that buzzer went off I thought you’d wet your pants.”

“Them?” the director said, pointing to the state employees milling about the other side of the viewing window. In the back, arms folded, was the man playing Martin Benedetti, the sheriff’s commander who’d arrested the scumbag killer and would view the burn for real. “Why?”

“They just sat there, staring. At me. Like vultures and I was roadkill.”

“They were supposed to, Johnny. That’s their job.”

“I know,” Sanders sighed, wriggling against the slats to murder an itch. “I get that they were play-acting. But right at the end, when the buzzer went off? I swear they wanted me dead.”

“For real?”

“Yeah. Creeped the bejeezus out of me.”

“That’s great!” the director barked, clapping his hands in glee. “Means they did a hell of an acting job too. Covington will be pleased.”

“Good,” Sanders said. “That’s good.”

“You got that right, brother,” the director said, crossing himself.

Today was the third in a series of dress rehearsals for the execution of Corrigan “Corey” Trent, whose monstrous crimes rivaled those of John Wayne Gacy and Richard Speck. Covington built the electric chair especially for Trent, and ordered these endless rehearsals to “make sure the bastard roasts to perfection.”

Which is why Sanders found himself in a six-by-twelve cell at Stateville Correctional Center, the maximum-security fortress near Joliet that housed Death Row. Sanders, a state historian, was organizing more than two centuries of official execution documents. He’d volunteered to play Trent in the dress rehearsals to get a better feel for the people he was reading about. “Our very own Method historian,” his boss kidded when Covington gave his blessing.

He was tossed in the one-man cage at noon yesterday, to the jeers, threats, and hurled feces of the real condemned, led by Corey Trent. Correctional officers—”COs” in prison parlance—restored order. Sanders sat in his bunk the rest of the day, heart thumping, chin in hands, wondering what exactly he’d gotten himself into.

At sundown, a flying squad of CO’s shoved him in an armored car and sped north. A half hour later he was flung into the condemned cell at the Illinois Justice Center in Naperville. The staff let him call his “lawyer” for updates on his “clemency petition,” then served his last meal—Coke, cheddar fries, and a rare T-bone. Prompting the center’s director to joke as he swallowed the last bite, “Don’t worry, Johnny, we’ll make sure you’re well-done.”

The doctor arrived at nine to make sure Sanders was healthy. “If you weren’t, we’d postpone. We don’t execute sick people,” he’d said, without a hint of sarcasm.

Then it was lights out. Sanders lay wide awake in the heavy concrete gloom, wondering how even monsters like Trent survived the Row without biting out their wrist veins. Best not to think about it, he supposed. He fell asleep.

At sunrise, the chaplain asked if he wanted to pray. Sanders said no, not now, but he’d sure appreciate a visit just before the sentence was carried out.

“That’s when I’ll really need your help, Reverend,” he explained. “You know, in getting square with the Lord.” The young chaplain agreed eagerly, and Sanders grinned to himself. Messing with the clergy was fun. They were so earnest.

Then he was shaved, diapered, dressed, manacled, marched down the hall, strapped into the electric chair, ministered, witnessed, and “executed.”

To ensure Sanders wasn’t accidentally injured, the live power cables weren’t attached to the chair. They plugged instead into a test box in the rear of the chamber, which, unlike the remainder of the cement complex, was tiled for easy cleanup. The box was chockablock with resistors and capacitors that mimicked the human body. If the power spurted out of the generator and ran the circuits properly, the box would buzz, signaling death.

Which it did.

Which is why everyone was smiling.

“What happens now?” Sanders asked as the guards unbuckled the last of the leather straps that pinned him to the oak.

“You take a break,” the director said. “Have a smoke, hit the john if you need. Then we run the whole thing again.” He pinched his chin divot, thinking. “This time, fight the guards all the way to the chair. Hard as you can. Give us a good show.”

“Cool,” Sanders said.

“Yeah, everyone likes that part,” a guard said.

As Sanders headed to the bathroom, the director dictated notes. Then he strode to the telephone—”safety yellow,” per OSHA regulations—bolted to the wall.

The hotline to the governor’s office in Springfield. It was there if Covington changed his mind, or some court somewhere changed it for him.

The latter was always possible, the director knew. The former wasn’t. Covington wouldn’t cancel an execution if his life depended on it. That kind of thinking hadn’t been in the man’s makeup since 1966. But having a hotline was part of the execution protocol, and as such, it needed to connect loud and clear.

He put receiver to ear and waited through the clicks.

“It went perfectly, Mr. Governor,” he said when Covington picked up downstate. “No more circuit problems. The Justice Center is up and running.” He listened a few more seconds, then grinned. “That’s right, sir. We’re ready to burn the trash.”

Chapter 1

“This is pretty great,” he groaned as the attendant shoveled on more steaming mud. “I feel like the marshmallow in the hot chocolate. Why didn’t you make me do this years ago?”

Her face pats left stripes on both his cheeks.

They were at a “mud spa” on Ogden Avenue, on Naperville’s Far North Side. She’d been asking Marty for months to try the tub for two. He’d kept declining, saying he wanted nothing to do with “exfoliants and lite FM.” Then, on her forty-second birthday, he’d bowed, handed her a gift certificate for two, and said, “Slap my chaps and call me Mary . . .”

She squished deeper.

Their cheerful attendant described the 104-degree mud as a “mystic Zen formula” that “detoxified and cleansed” body and spirit. Emily knew it was the same peat moss, volcanic ash, and tap water she dumped in her flower beds. She didn’t care. Its clinging heat whacked her stress like a hitman. Having Marty cheek to cheek was a bonus—they could make fun of it later as they snuggled up in her bed, all Zenned.

The attendant filled two Waterford flutes with Carrot Infusion Juice. The lead crystal glowed tangerine in the soft mood lighting. She offered to swaddle their eyes with cucumbers dipped in chilled lemon water. “So your inner child stays cool,” she murmured.

Emily tilted her face to accept them. Marty declined, muttering about needing a testosterone patch. The attendant giggled, shoveled on the final steamy layer. “I’ll step out now, let the Zen work its magic. Call if you need me.”

Marty thanked her, waited for the door to latch, cleared his throat.

“You’re not going to tell anyone about this, right?” he said.

“About what, darling?” Emily asked innocently, hearing the skritch-skritch of his fingers worrying the side of the redwood tub. She smiled into the lemon-scented darkness.

“No time!” Emily shouted, shoving her heels against the bottom of the tub. Her hamstrings twanged, and the rest of her popped free.

She swung her rubbery legs over the ledge. Lunged for her black leather purse. Slipped on the glass and fell sideways, banging her head off the cornflower wall tiles as she hit the floor. “Emily! You all right?”

Marty knotted a bath towel around his waist. Emily reached up, ripped her purse off the peg, and pulled out two Glocks—hers 9-mm. and his .45. The attendant shrank into a corner. “Don’t hurt me,” she begged. “Please, Miss, I’ll do whatever you say.”

“We’re police,” Emily said, thrusting Marty’s gun over her head like the Statue of Liberty’s torch. He snatched it and bolted. A moment later he reappeared, threw Emily a thick white robe, rushed off.

Emily grabbed the pitcher of Infusion Juice and poured it over her head. She gasped as the icy slush melted on her steam-ironed body. The bells fell silent. She scrabbled to her feet, punched her arms through the too-large terrycloth, wrapped her hands around the butt of her gun, and sprinted to the lobby.

“Good lord,” she breathed at the explosion of tomato soup.

Marty was on his knees, blowing air into a young, pretty woman. Her face was white as spun sugar. Blood fizzed from her neck and chest when Marty exhaled. Emily sensed the CPR was form, not substance.

“Naperville Police!” she announced, ready to fire if the shooter popped out of the crowd. “Which way did he go?”

No answer, just a frantic fear-buzz.

“Did he leave?” she demanded. “Come on, somebody talk!”

“He didn’t say a word,” a manicurist blubbered. “Just swung a knife and took off.”

Emily looked around, didn’t see a weapon. Maybe still on him. “Which way?”

The manicurist pointed at the main door.

“Parking lot,” Marty said, not looking up. “Watch yourself. I’ll be right behind.” He surveyed the crowd. “All right, who knows CPR? You need to take over now . . .”

She ran her emerald eyes over the closest group of cars. Nobody hiding. No doors slamming. Ditto the next, the next, the next—

“Look out!” Marty yelled.

Emily whirled to see an Audi streak out of a slot and charge her. Shooting was useless—it’d be on her in a heartbeat. She jumped straight up, desperately clawing air to clear the metallic blue bumper that would mash her to roadkill—

“Aaaah!” she screamed as her body shoveled up and over the hood. She crashed into the windshield, heard a sickening crunch. Glass or shoulder, she didn’t know which.

The driver jammed the gas pedal. The sucker-punch of acceleration flipped her up on the roof. She windsurfed a moment, scrabbling for a hold on the hot, slick metal.

A sharp swerve bucked her off.

She slammed into the rear gate of an ancient pickup truck. She and rust rained to the pavement. She rolled the moment her body touched, to avoid breaking her neck. The Glock skittered out of her hands. She quick-crawled after it, vision jangled, skin on fire.

Marty triggered a pair of bullets. She saw the flames but didn’t hear the blasts. The rear passenger window shattered.

She reached her gun and fired at the driver’s head. Three sheet-metal craters opened in the door. Too low. She adjusted, re-aimed.

“The scar.” She’d taken a bullet in her left calf two years ago during a nightmare encounter with a serial killer. The knotty wound healed enough to pass the department’s medical exam, but when pushed to extreme physical limits—like now—it could squeal like a ripped pig.

“Dig into it, Marty,” she begged. “Make it stop. Oh God it hurts.” She prayed the sirens were paramedics bearing needles of painkiller.

She clutched Marty’s waist and pulled herself sitting, fighting the sudden blizzard of panic. Her killer from two years earlier was back, choking her life away. She made herself breathe deep and slow, four seconds in, four seconds out. In. Out. In. Out.

The Executioner whipped into an empty slot, his blue eyes pulsing radar.

No cops. Not even a curious civilian.

He turned off the engine. As he’d learned from his numerous practice runs, this medical-office parking lot on Sherman Avenue—thirty seconds from the spa, screened by trees and buildings—made an ideal place to switch cars.

Though the advantage wouldn’t last if he dawdled.

He peeled the fake red beard from his jaw. Wiped the rubber-cement boogers into a white supermarket bag, added the beard, bloody knife, sunglasses, and Bulls cap he’d worn for the hit. He crumpled it tight, looked around once more, ready to escape . . .

An olive-green minivan was pulling up to the curb.

Get out of here, he warned silently, each tick of the cooling engine loud as an artillery blast. Thirty more seconds and you die too. Not that he minded, but the kill would take time he didn’t have. Leave. Now.

She didn’t.

He gripped the Sig-Sauer snugged in his waistband.

Five seconds . . .

His left hand squeezed the chromed door handle.

Three seconds . . ..

Exit, walk, shoot till dead, walk back, drive away. Easy.

Two seconds . . . one second . . .

A skinny girl in pigtails hopped out of the van and dashed through a door with a sign shaped like a molar. The woman made a three-point turn and exited the lot.

Lucky you.

The Executioner slid out, tossed the keys down the storm drain. Hopped into the Subaru with the bag, started the engine with a gasoline-heavy vroom. Nosed out on Sherman then onto Ogden Avenue. Quickly scooted to the middle divider to let a police cruiser scream past. The cop hunched over the wheel made a little wave, “Thanks.”

He waved back, amused.

He drove the speed limit to Wisconsin Avenue, cranked the wheel in a quick hard right, and began his side-street escape from the killing field.

“Shane Gericke is the real deal.” Author Lee Child

“Crackles from the opening page!” Author Zoe Sharp

“Cross James Patterson with Joseph Wambaugh and you get Shane Gericke. This is one helluva terrific book.” Roy Huntington, American Cop magazine

Copyright, Shane Gericke. Published by New Word City and Mandevilla Press

Follow Shane!

Notable Quotes

"One of the most remarkable thrillers I've read in a long time. Pay attention—this one's a winner." David Morrell, creator of Rambo

"Be warned, treachery comes from all directions, even those that cannot be seen." Steve Berry

"A fireball of awesome!" Joshua Corin

"This is an A-grade thriller, and Shane Gericke is the real deal." Lee Child

"Gericke has invented a police force that deserves to have its own TV show." New Mystery Reader

"The clear eye of a hard-nosed reporter and the sweet soul of an artist. His power is visceral and unforgettable." Gayle Lynds

"A high-rev, page-turning thriller that offers a searing look at the very thin blue line separating good and evil." Jeffery Deaver

"A roller-coaster ride of a suspense thriller, and not for the faint of heart." Suspense Magazine

"Beautifully drawn characters, sharply observed detail, and exceptional writing. Has the impact of a large-caliber handgun fired at point-blank range. This is one hell of a good book." Douglas Preston

"Torn Apart will keep you turning the pages so fast, you won't even notice that half the night's already gone. Shane Gericke knows how to tighten the screws and keep the fear and tension building." Tess Gerritsen

"Cross James Patterson with Joseph Wambaugh and you get Shane Gericke." Roy Huntington, American Cop Magazine

"Gericke's writing is a blistering rush of sheer artistry." Ken Bruen

"A deadly game of cat and mouse." Alex Kava

"CSI meets Law & Order!" Kathleen Antrim

"The Fury is one of the most remarkable thrillers I've read in a long time. Shane Gericke's twenty-five years in the newspaper world make every scene resonate with a you-are-there authenticity, as if I'm reading fact, not fiction. His characters feel remarkably real also: vivid, likeable, and compelling. I want to spend more and more time with them. Every scene has an intensity that made me turn the pages faster. The action is state-of-the art. Pay attention—this one's a winner." David Morrell, creator of Rambo

"Gericke is an expert in providing suspense with horror, surpassing that of a Stephen King or Dean Koontz." Who Dunnit Mystery Reviews

"Tension and turmoil add up to high-stakes suspense as the characters are skillfully played across a global chessboard. Written like a born bard of old, you won't be disappointed. But be warned, treachery comes from all directions, even those that cannot be seen." Steve Berry

"In a word: Wow!" Julie Hyzy

"A roller coaster ride of a suspense thriller, and not for the faint of heart. There is a dark underlying humor in the book, and of course, plenty of bloody mayhem. The characters are well defined, the dialogue is dead-on realistic, and the action is nonstop. The intertwining of subplots is expertly orchestrated, and the action scenes are so well-choreographed that you're right there in the middle of the violence, dodging bullets and body parts." Suspense Magazine

"Shane Gericke writes with the clear eye of hard-nosed reporter and the sweet soul of an artist. The power of Blown Away is visceral and unforgettable—you won't want to miss this one. Fascinating, gripping, and intense." Gayle Lynds

"The first chapter is as good as or better than any novel you will read this summer. Shane Gericke has an eye for detail and this opening scene is cinematic." Mystery Dawg

"A rambunctious, devious novel full of chutzpah, high energy and surprises. Forget roller-coaster; this one reads like a rocket. Once you pick it up it won't put you down." John Lutz

"The perfect crime book. I have only one regret—the book ended." Round Table Reviews

"Gericke is an expert in providing suspense with horror, surpassing that of a Stephen King or Dean Koontz. Don't miss this one!" Who Dunnit Mystery Review

"A shotgun start, an Indy 500 wild ride and an explosive finish. The pages will speed forward so quickly that readers are going to be disappointed to read the final word." RT Book Reviews

"With plenty of wisecracking cops, loudmouth jerks, shootouts, fast cars, a bad guy who can think and a plot that will twist your mind, who needs more? Move over, Elmore Leonard, there's a new sheriff in town!" Roy Huntington, American Cop magazine

"This book made me jump at every noise, and I am looking over my shoulder a lot of late." I Love a Mystery Newsletter

"A heart-pounding pace that rivals that of The DaVinci Code . . . never flags, falters or fails to deliver. Read it for a terrific ride on a thrill-mobile you're not likely to forget any time soon." Naperville Magazine

"Gericke's smart and suspenseful book will keep you turning the pages . . . then get you up in the morning hiding your board games away. A remarkably strong first novel; I can't wait for the next!" Deborah Blum

"Blown Away is exceptional. The characters, the pacing and the thriller aspects are all top-notch and indicate a very talented writer." Reviewing the Evidence

"Gericke makes the story his own with a collection of well-drawn characters. Emily Thompson is an unlikely protagonist for a thriller, and thus all the more welcome . . . an entertaining read." David Montgomery Reviews

"Made me feel like I was along as part of the investigation. The writing flows and the story kept me reading far into the night." Crime Spree Magazine

"Stunning suspense tale." BookRak

"Set in a sharply observed Midwest, Torn Apart features one of the best heroines to come along in years, whose dedication to her job throws her into a deadly cat-and-mouse game against complex, fleshed-out villains, some driven by good, some by evil, but all intent on leaving plenty of carnage in their wake." Jeffery Deaver

"The novel was one you didn't want to put down, but the images it left in my mind were very upsetting." XMLwriter Book Reviews

"The police are sophisticated, but one step behind a cold-blooded serial killer in a tale that weaves fast-moving action with a stunning conclusion." Tim West, Naperville Sun

"As a veteran cop who's also female, I approach such thrillers with a jaded eye. But Blown Away didn't let me down! It's one of the rare books where the female lead isn't only a cop, she's smart, savvy and tough too. Ditto for the SWAT sniper, her best friend and another highly competent female cop. We need more of this!" Suzanne Huntington, retired detective, San Diego Police

"Watch out V.I. Warshawski, there's a new detective in town. Shane Gericke's new thriller will keep you on the edge of your seat as some sharp cops take on a serial killer with a huge ego and deadly grudge." Howard Wolinsky

"A quickening series of savage clues suck rookie cop Emily Thompson and her fellow law-enforcement officers into a grisly guessing game—a game whose rules only the twisted killer knows. With insightful grace, Shane Gericke weaves vivid characters and nonstop action into a compelling page-turner. He emerges as a rising star of the police-thriller genre." Peter Haugen

This is sample text for Vertical marquee plugin.

This is sample text for Vertical marquee plugin.

Author’s Bio

Bestselling author Shane Gericke has been held at knifepoint, hit by lightning, and shaken the cold sweaty hand of Liberace. He was born to write thriller novels!

Shaneblog

Contact Shane

Roll Call

"One of the most remarkable thrillers I've read in a long time. Pay attention—this one's a winner." David Morrell, creator of Rambo

"Be warned, treachery comes from all directions, even those that cannot be seen." Steve Berry

"A fireball of awesome!" Joshua Corin

"This is an A-grade thriller, and Shane Gericke is the real deal." Lee Child

"Gericke has invented a police force that deserves to have its own TV show." New Mystery Reader

"The clear eye of a hard-nosed reporter and the sweet soul of an artist. His power is visceral and unforgettable." Gayle Lynds

"A high-rev, page-turning thriller that offers a searing look at the very thin blue line separating good and evil." Jeffery Deaver

"A roller-coaster ride of a suspense thriller, and not for the faint of heart." Suspense Magazine

"Beautifully drawn characters, sharply observed detail, and exceptional writing. Has the impact of a large-caliber handgun fired at point-blank range. This is one hell of a good book." Douglas Preston

"Torn Apart will keep you turning the pages so fast, you won't even notice that half the night's already gone. Shane Gericke knows how to tighten the screws and keep the fear and tension building." Tess Gerritsen

"Cross James Patterson with Joseph Wambaugh and you get Shane Gericke." Roy Huntington, American Cop Magazine

"Gericke's writing is a blistering rush of sheer artistry." Ken Bruen

"A deadly game of cat and mouse." Alex Kava

"CSI meets Law & Order!" Kathleen Antrim

"The Fury is one of the most remarkable thrillers I've read in a long time. Shane Gericke's twenty-five years in the newspaper world make every scene resonate with a you-are-there authenticity, as if I'm reading fact, not fiction. His characters feel remarkably real also: vivid, likeable, and compelling. I want to spend more and more time with them. Every scene has an intensity that made me turn the pages faster. The action is state-of-the art. Pay attention—this one's a winner." David Morrell, creator of Rambo

"Gericke is an expert in providing suspense with horror, surpassing that of a Stephen King or Dean Koontz." Who Dunnit Mystery Reviews

"Tension and turmoil add up to high-stakes suspense as the characters are skillfully played across a global chessboard. Written like a born bard of old, you won't be disappointed. But be warned, treachery comes from all directions, even those that cannot be seen." Steve Berry

"In a word: Wow!" Julie Hyzy

"A roller coaster ride of a suspense thriller, and not for the faint of heart. There is a dark underlying humor in the book, and of course, plenty of bloody mayhem. The characters are well defined, the dialogue is dead-on realistic, and the action is nonstop. The intertwining of subplots is expertly orchestrated, and the action scenes are so well-choreographed that you're right there in the middle of the violence, dodging bullets and body parts." Suspense Magazine

"Shane Gericke writes with the clear eye of hard-nosed reporter and the sweet soul of an artist. The power of Blown Away is visceral and unforgettable—you won't want to miss this one. Fascinating, gripping, and intense." Gayle Lynds

"The first chapter is as good as or better than any novel you will read this summer. Shane Gericke has an eye for detail and this opening scene is cinematic." Mystery Dawg

"A rambunctious, devious novel full of chutzpah, high energy and surprises. Forget roller-coaster; this one reads like a rocket. Once you pick it up it won't put you down." John Lutz

"The perfect crime book. I have only one regret—the book ended." Round Table Reviews

"Gericke is an expert in providing suspense with horror, surpassing that of a Stephen King or Dean Koontz. Don't miss this one!" Who Dunnit Mystery Review

"A shotgun start, an Indy 500 wild ride and an explosive finish. The pages will speed forward so quickly that readers are going to be disappointed to read the final word." RT Book Reviews

"With plenty of wisecracking cops, loudmouth jerks, shootouts, fast cars, a bad guy who can think and a plot that will twist your mind, who needs more? Move over, Elmore Leonard, there's a new sheriff in town!" Roy Huntington, American Cop magazine

"This book made me jump at every noise, and I am looking over my shoulder a lot of late." I Love a Mystery Newsletter

"A heart-pounding pace that rivals that of The DaVinci Code . . . never flags, falters or fails to deliver. Read it for a terrific ride on a thrill-mobile you're not likely to forget any time soon." Naperville Magazine

"Gericke's smart and suspenseful book will keep you turning the pages . . . then get you up in the morning hiding your board games away. A remarkably strong first novel; I can't wait for the next!" Deborah Blum

"Blown Away is exceptional. The characters, the pacing and the thriller aspects are all top-notch and indicate a very talented writer." Reviewing the Evidence

"Gericke makes the story his own with a collection of well-drawn characters. Emily Thompson is an unlikely protagonist for a thriller, and thus all the more welcome . . . an entertaining read." David Montgomery Reviews

"Made me feel like I was along as part of the investigation. The writing flows and the story kept me reading far into the night." Crime Spree Magazine

"Stunning suspense tale." BookRak

"Set in a sharply observed Midwest, Torn Apart features one of the best heroines to come along in years, whose dedication to her job throws her into a deadly cat-and-mouse game against complex, fleshed-out villains, some driven by good, some by evil, but all intent on leaving plenty of carnage in their wake." Jeffery Deaver

"The novel was one you didn't want to put down, but the images it left in my mind were very upsetting." XMLwriter Book Reviews

"The police are sophisticated, but one step behind a cold-blooded serial killer in a tale that weaves fast-moving action with a stunning conclusion." Tim West, Naperville Sun

"As a veteran cop who's also female, I approach such thrillers with a jaded eye. But Blown Away didn't let me down! It's one of the rare books where the female lead isn't only a cop, she's smart, savvy and tough too. Ditto for the SWAT sniper, her best friend and another highly competent female cop. We need more of this!" Suzanne Huntington, retired detective, San Diego Police

"Watch out V.I. Warshawski, there's a new detective in town. Shane Gericke's new thriller will keep you on the edge of your seat as some sharp cops take on a serial killer with a huge ego and deadly grudge." Howard Wolinsky

"A quickening series of savage clues suck rookie cop Emily Thompson and her fellow law-enforcement officers into a grisly guessing game—a game whose rules only the twisted killer knows. With insightful grace, Shane Gericke weaves vivid characters and nonstop action into a compelling page-turner. He emerges as a rising star of the police-thriller genre." Peter Haugen